


Gloomy Drabbles

by Little_Red_Hat



Series: Gloom - The Modifier Prompts [2]
Category: Gloom (Card Game)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Black Widow - Freeform, Blackwater Watch, Cannibalism, Castle Slogar, Dark's Den of Deformity, Drabbles, Gloom card game, Mad Scientist, Marriage of Convenience, Multi, Murder, Resurrection, Revenge, Unrequited Love, grave robbing, mermaid, stew
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-29 18:06:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8499874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Red_Hat/pseuds/Little_Red_Hat
Summary: A series of one-offs and drabbles inspired by the characters and modifiers in the card game "Gloom".





	1. 'Til Death Do Us Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When his financial troubles leave him in dire straits, Darius is forced to do something truly terrible - get married.  
> And it seems that his new bride is even worse than most...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modifiers for this Drabble:  
> Darius Dark - Was Badly Betrothed

The wine had been drank, the food had been eaten, and the loud cries of revelry had slowly faded into silence as day turned to night at Blackwater Watch. 

Darius Dark sat alone at a table amongst the soiled glasses and stained plates, watching the dying light of the candle before him as it flickered and danced.

Today had been his wedding day. And it had been the worst day of his life.

It had been a union of necessity, not passion. Shortly after Darius and his Den of Deformity had rolled into town, they were paid a visit by the Blackwater clan - led, naturally, by their fearsome matriarch. As he announced the acts and entertained his (very small) crowd, Darius couldn't help but notice how the old woman's eyes forever remained fixed on him. 

After the show, when he'd headed into his caravan to retire for the night, he was interrupted by an unexpected knock on the door. Upon opening it, he was stunned to find that the crone had followed him. She asked him for a quick word, and naturally, being a gentleman, he permitted her to enter.

"It's not too bad, your little carnival," she'd told him. "Still, it's a bit small and shabby for someone of your talents. You've a lot of potential."

Darius was flattered.

"Thank you," he'd replied. "I had hoped to build this up into something much greater, but sadly, funds have been something of an issue for me."

"I thought as much," the Old Dam said. "What you need is a partner."

"A partner?" Darius answered. "I doubt it. I like to run things around here my own way. I'd struggle to work with anyone else."

"Oh, goodness, no, I didn't mean a _business_ partner," the Old Dam added hurriedly. "A man of your gifts has every right to work solo. I was thinking more along the lines of someone who would offer you financial support without interfering in your affairs."

"But what would I give them in return?"

Smirking, the Old Dam had reached out her clammy, wrinkled hand, and stroked Darius' cheek. The ringmaster's blood turned to ice in an instant. Peturbed, he backed away against the wall, as the old crone watched him and laughed.

"Oh, come now, Mr. Dark!" she cackled. "You're a handsome young man. You'd make a fine husband to someone such as myself. And with a fortune such as mine, it would hardly be a worthless endeavour on your part."

"But - but I..." stammered Darius, "I - I could never - "

"Love me?" The Old Dam laughed even louder. "How sentimental of you! Love and marriage are not the same thing, young man. Love may indeed be a precious thing, but it's not going to keep you out of the poorhouse."

She paused for a moment, still smiling evilly.

"Then, of course, there is the matter of social class," she added. "Being wedded to me would certainly raise you up the ladder, would it not? Influence is a key part of fame, and being seen with me will ensure you have plenty of that. You'll be one of the greatest figures in society today. Not bad for a man born and raised amongst circus freaks."

"That's enough, you wicked hag!" Darius snapped, outraged. "Get out of here, and stay out! I never want to see your wrinkled old face again!"

A chuckle erupted from the mouth of the sinster matriarch.

"Play holier than thou all you like, Mr. Dark," she whispered, heading towards the caravan door. "But I advise you to think carefully about my offer. The wolves won't stay away from your door forever."

Sadly, she was right. As the weeks went by, Darius' situation became more and more bleak. The already-low attendance figures continued to decrease. Creditors and loan sharks threatened to take away everything he had. And soon, even his beloved troupe members were forced to go hungry, with no food remaining in the stores to fill their stomachs.

That treacherous witch had been right. He had no choice. If he wanted to keep those he cared for safe and alive, there was only one thing he could do. 

Thus, one tragic night, Darius gave Samson a note he had written - the bearded man being the most trustable as he was unable to read - and instructed him to deliver it to Blackwater Watch. When the Old Dam received this missal, she was thrilled to see it was signed "D.D.", and that the body of the message consisted of only two words.

_I do._

And so, here Darius was: a married man, joined in holy and legally binding matrimony to a woman he despised. As he watched the candlelight flickering - like a prisoner trying to break free of its bonds - he was interrupted by the entrance of the grizzly groundkeeper, Willem.

"Evenin', Mr. Dark," Willem said to his new master. "Pardon the intrusion... I just wanted to pop by and wish yer good luck."

"Thank you, Willem."

"No, sir - seriously," the handyman told him, in a gruff, matter-of-fact tone. "Good bleedin' luck."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, yer do know yer not her first husband, don't yer?"

"Of course. I assumed she'd been married before."

"Well, let's just say the last few didn't exactly die of natural causes."

"The last FEW?!"

"Four. Mebbe five. Yer lose count after a bit."

"And she...?"

"Yep - every one of 'em. Even the fathers of her kiddies. Never proven in court, of course. Too clever for that, the old bitch."

Darius sank back into his chair, shaking... his face chalk-white.

"Still," Willem added, in a brighter tone, "she's getting on a bit now, and yer a young healthy fella. Keep yer wits about yer, and yer'll be fine. Probably."

With these words, Willem walked out. Knowing he was once again safe in his loneliness, hidden from prying eyes, Darius threw his head into his hands, and wept. 

He'd had everything planned. Fritter away any money he could get his hands on to the Den, to make sure his wonderful pseudo-family of curiosities stayed safe, and then, when the old cow finally kicked the bucket, he'd run back there, inheritance in hand, and create the carnival of his dreams. Now, it seemed like she was going to be the one who ended up widowed - for God knows what number time in a row.

As he contemplated this, a steel-like strength took hold of the ringmaster's heart. 

No. _No_ \- it would not be that way. He was going to survive this god-awful marriage and see the bitch buried. He'd outrun her. Outlast her. Or maybe... just maybe... beat her at her own game. 

After all, he had four good reasons to do it. Three of them were named Samson, Mister Giggles and Thumbelisa. And the fourth was the most special of all. 

The woman he had loved from the moment he'd met her. The woman that his affection for would keep him strong throughout this taxing trial: her face entering his mind in the sweetest of his dreams. The woman whom he would ask to become the second Mrs. Dark once the first one was finally in Hell where she belonged.

Elissandre. His beautiful illustrated lady.

With tears staining his cheeks and a sinister smirk crossing his lips, Darius Dark blew out the candle.


	2. Any Other Part Belonging to a Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whilst helping Prof. Helena with her ongoing work on Lord Slogar, Elias contemplates the possibility that her devotion to a dead man is robbing her of a loving bond with a living one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modifiers that inspired this drabble:
> 
> Elias E. Gorr – Found Love on the Lake  
> Prof. Helena Slogar – Stole from a Stiff  
> Melissa Slogar – Slept Without Sorrows

As he rowed the small vessel across the grim, grey waters of the vast lake, heading back towards Castle Slogar, Elias released the oars momentarily – having caught a glimpse of his employer out of the corner of one eye.

 

Prof. Slogar was sat at the other end of the boat in a posture that could only be described as regal: bolt upright, but with a calm, focused composure... like Cleopatra making her great entrance into Rome. Two things rested softly in her lap. The first was the head of young Melissa, who, worn out from the journey, had fallen asleep beside her mother. The second was... a fresh acquisition, wrapped up tightly in a white handkerchief.

 

A new piece for Lord Slogar.

 

Normally, Elias would go on these moonlit journeys alone - having long been trusted by the Professor to retrieve high quality “materials”. Tonight, however, she had made an exception. The next part she needed, she'd said, was one that she would have to choose for herself. It would, allegedly, be of great importance to the continued relationship of herself and her soon-to-be resurrected husband. Their happiness would very much depend on it.

 

Unable to leave Melissa unaccompanied, the Professor had brought the young girl along on their late night excursion – the child amusing herself by playing hopscotch amongst the gravestones whilst the adults did the dirty work. Or rather, as Elias did the dirty work: Helena gave the orders, the gravedigger carried them out.

 

After a good hour spent considering several specimens, Helena settled on the perfect part, and instructed Elias to take them home. As Elias watched her, the Professor's hand gently brushed against the wrapped-up artefact, and she allowed herself a small, knowing smile.

 

Unintentionally, the sexton sighed. Startled, Prof. Slogar looked at him with a cold stare.

 

“Elias? You _are_ still rowing, aren't you?”

 

“Huh? What was that?”

 

For the first time, Elias became aware that he had let go of the oars. Muttering a minced oath (what with Melissa being present, albeit asleep), he quickly grabbed them once again.

 

“Sorry, Professor. Won't happen again.”

 

“I should hope not,” scoffed Helena, turning her head aside.

 

Groaning quietly with embarrassment, Elias picked up the pace – now eager to reach the shore and escaping this embarrassing situation, losing himself in thought as he rowed on.

 

The gravedigger knew all too well that two key forces drove the Professor: ambition, and grief. Working in a field where men dominated almost every aspect, Helena was determined to prove herself by discovering some the greatest scientific breakthroughs known to humankind. And indeed, she had. She was able to resurrect the dead. However, for the time being, this great ability of hers had to remain hidden, out of fear that harm may come to Melissa. After all, the girl was not only the proof of her victory over mortality, but her only child: her dearest and most precious treasure.

 

That said, Melissa's “reawakening” had gone relatively smoothly. She had died following an illness, which, whilst incredibly tragic, had mercifully left her body and brain intact. In the case of Helena's late husband, only the latter remained. It would take all of Helena's cleverness and craftsmanship, and many months, if not years, of hard work, to create a new human host for it to dwell within.

 

And _that_ was what confused Elias.

 

The Professor going to extreme efforts to resurrect her only child was totally understandable. There was no word in the English language to describe that grief – horrific as it was. Anyone in that terrible situation would do whatever they could to bring them back. But marriage was a rather different matter. Many widows married again, once they'd given themselves time to grieve the loss of their first spouse.

 

Furthermore, it wasn't as if Helena was “past it”. She'd married Jonathan Slogar at the age of eighteen, with Melissa being born about a year later. Even after spending several years on her scientific pursuits, she was still not yet forty. Were she to wed a second husband, and soon, they would most likely spend several happy years together. She might even be able to have more children: not to substitute Melissa, of course, but to fulfil her dream of having a large, happy family.

 

But no. Instead, she was spending what were arguably the best years of her life handling corpses and buying herself in calculations. As smart as she was, even the Professor was unable to stop the passage of time. At this rate, by the time Lord Slogar was back in a body and back on his feet, Helena herself would be on the verge of death – a wizened, wretched wench. This image reminded Elias of the murderous old bitch who lived over at Blackwater Watch, and he shuddered at the thought.

 

Hell, Helena wouldn't even have to look far for a devoted lover.

 

From the day he'd arrived at Castle Slogar – a formal appointment to bury the limited bodily remains of the late Lord Jonathan – Elias had considered Professor Helena one of the most beautiful women he had ever laid eyes on. As time went on, her wisdom and determination only tightened her unknowing grip on his heart. Elias was all too aware that he himself was hideous, and as such, he was willing to do whatever he could to keep this goddess in his life: performing her various dubious odd-jobs, and essentially becoming her live-in servant.

 

Thus, as the Professor pined over a dead man, there was a living one close to her that utterly worshipped the ground she walked on. She was a genius... and yet that was the one thing she didn't know.

 

She was far too good for the likes of him. And yes, Elias knew that.

 

Still, he lived in hope.

 

After beaching the boat onto the shoreline, Elias escorted the Professor back to the castle, carrying the sleeping Melissa gently in his arms. After they had tucked the girl up in bed, he and Helena made their way to the laboratory.

 

Grinning, Helena placed the handkerchief-wrapped package on her worktable, and peeled away the cloth slowly... like one opening a precious gift. She clapped her hands together proudly as she once again witnessed its contents.

 

The face of a young man, freshly dead and buried... chosen due to his striking resemblance to the former Lord Slogar.

 

As Helena tenderly stroked the dead man's cheek, Elias felt his blood run cold. Excusing himself, he hastily fled from the room and retreated to his cell-like quarters: pommeling his pillow with tightly clenched fists in a vain effort to relieve his jealous anger.

 


	3. Samson and the Siren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darius acquires a new addition to the Den of Deformity, and entrusts Samson to take care of her. However, the bearded man grows much closer to her than the ringmaster ever expected...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modifiers that influenced this drabble:  
> Samson O'Toole - Married a Mermaid
> 
> Please note that I do not know any Irish Gaelic, so all phrases are guesses using online searches. Corrections are welcome.

Within a purple linen tent at the Den of Deformity, Darius Dark grinned as he examined the newly-built ten-foot-tall fish tank before him. The timid-looking creature within it pressed herself up against the glass - a sadness shining in her eyes, her forlorn face showing a longing for freedom.

 

It almost brought Samson to tears.

 

“They caught her in a fishing net off the coast of Galway,” Darius explained. “Got her for just ten pounds. What a bargain - she’ll have paid for herself in a week. They’ll all be rushing here to see her. I mean, a real-life mermaid! Even that charlatan Barnum only managed to get his hands on a fake one. This is completely unique.”

 

Samson didn’t respond. He had no idea what to say.

 

“Pretty little thing, isn’t she?” the ringmaster added.

 

The bearded man had to concur with that, and thus he nodded. He’d seen pictures of mermaids in the fairy tale books Elissandre sometimes read to him, but none of them could have matched the beauty of this one. The scales of her fishy tail were a dazzling shade of green - like emeralds shining in bright sunlight. As for her human aspects, she was a very pretty maiden indeed: snow-white unblemished skin, a mane of brunette hair that was the colour of autumn leaves, and the same emerald glimmer within her eyes.

 

“I need to help Thumbelisa rehearse,” Darius suddenly piped up. “She keeps forgetting the lyrics to  _ Habanera. _ I tell her to just sing anything she wants, it’s not like anyone will understand it, but she insists on being professional.  You keep an eye on my new treasure here. Give her some food, keep her company. I’ll be back later.

 

As Darius strode out, Samson approached the tank. The mermaid, curious, swam towards him - putting her hand against the glass, fanning her fingers. 

 

Samson raised his own hand up towards hers, and did likewise - looking at the Den’s newest addition with a gentle, welcoming smile. 

 

She smiled back.

 

A few moments passed. Then, Samson suddenly remembered he had a job to do.

 

Food. What in God’s name did mermaids eat? Fish? No, probably not - that would be a bit like eating your own pets, wouldn’t it? Then again, maybe not. Ah, well, it didn’t matter - he didn’t have any fish to give her anyway. So what  _ did _ he have?

 

Reaching into his pocket, Samson took out a biscuit he’d been saving. It had crumbled slightly, and was a tad stale - as was most of the food around here - but it was still edible.

He held it up to the mermaid for consideration. She looked at him with a puzzled expression. 

 

Ah. So she wasn’t used to biscuits. Still, she seemed intrigued by it, and was rapidly swimming up toward the top of the tank. 

 

Slowly and steadily, Samson climbed an old wooden ladder that was carefully balanced against the glass tank, in order to reach a viewing platform that had been built above it. This allowed him to open a small hatch in the tank’s lid, where he could speak to the mermaid directly and pass items to her. 

 

As the hatch opened, the fair siren, desperate for some fresh air and light, swam up into the gap, bursting out of the water like a jack in the box. After composing herself, she looked up at Samson - reaching her arm up towards him. The bearded man held the biscuit out to her.

 

“Biscuit,” he said, bluntly. “Food. To eat.”

 

The mermaid took it, and examined it within her hands, intrigued by it.

 

_ “Cad é seo?” _

 

Samson’s eyes widened. It had been many years since he had heard the old language of his homeland. The ringmaster had said the mermaid had been found near Galway. She and her people had probably spoken Irish Gaelic for hundreds of years. Thankfully, he was fluent. Darius and the others, he knew, were not… and the mermaid didn’t seem to know English. No wonder she look so terrified: when Darius had brought her here, after making his various deals, she probably had no clue what was happening to her. 

 

Perhaps hearing someone speak in her native tongue would calm her a little.

 

“ _ Briosca _ ,” he told her, pointing to the biscuit. “ _ Ith _ .”

 

_ “Tuigim. Go raibh maith agat.” _

 

_ “Ta fáilte romhat.” _

 

The mermaid raised the biscuit to her lips tenderly, before slowly taking a little bite of it. After chewing and contemplating for a few moments, she made an appreciative humming noise, and smiled at Samson.

 

_ “Tá blas maith!” _

 

Hastily, she chomped the rest of it down, whilst Samson chuckled. Once she’d finished, and had licked her lips happily, she turned back towards the bearded man with a warm smile.

 

_ “Is mise Muirín,”   _ she said, placing a hand on her chest.

 

_ “Samson is ainm dom.” _

 

_ “Tá áthas orm bualadh leat.” _

 

The conversation went on for quite some time. In fact, Darius got back far too soon for Samson’s liking. By then, he and Muirín - as the mermaid called herself - had been talking for well over an hour, but to him, it had only felt like a few moments. When Darius informed him that he was needed to help set things up for the next show, he found himself biting his tongue to avoid answering him back. The ringmaster  was his boss, after all. 

 

So, with much regret, he closed the tank lid - doing his best to ignore Muirín’s frantically shaking head as he did so - climbed down the ladder, and sloped off out of the tent.

 

* * *

As the days went on, Samson began to spend more and more time with his new aquatic acquaintance. He constantly volunteered to feed and care for her, and given that his particular “act” wasn’t one that had to be rehearsed, he went to visit her during his downtime, too. 

 

Talking in a language no-one around them knew made their conversations seem more secret, more private, more…  _ intimate _ . Both parties felt able to share things with one another that they wouldn’t do in usual circumstances: stories about their families and childhoods, what their respective lives had been like before the Den. 

 

Samson had been a simple farmhand, who’d joined the circus out of desperation when hard times had hit, rather than being a natural seeker of the spotlight. Muirín, meanwhile, was a noble-born lady within mermaid society: not quite a princess, but certainly a solidified member of the underwater aristocracy. She had approached the fishing nets when they had been catching creatures within her family’s part of the sea, resulting in her accidental capture, and she sorely missed the marvellous city where she and her fellow sirens had been sired.

 

One night, Samson climbed up to the platform to give Muirin her dinner: a cheese and lettuce sandwich. Through trial and error, the bearded man had learned that she wasn’t keen on eating fish or animals, but anything vegetarian was sure to get her tastebuds tingling. For a special treat, Samson had even saved her a slice of cake the troupe had shared for Mister Giggles’ birthday. 

 

After the mermaid had eaten, she splashed around happily in the open hatchway for a while, enjoying the limited freedom it gave her, and the feel of warm light upon her face. As Samson watched her, lying down on the platform and leaning into the hatch to get a better view, a similar warmth began to grow within his heart.

 

Upon noticing Samson gazing at her lovingly, Muirín stopped suddenly - looking up at her friend with a troubled expression, snapping him out of his daze.

 

_ “Tá rud éigin mícheart?” _  he asked.

 

Slowly, Muirín towards the edge of the hatch, reached up her arms, and wrapped them around Samson’s neck.

 

 _“Samson…_ _mo ghrá thú.”_

 

With those words, she leapt up like a dolphin, and kissed him.

 

Seconds later, Samson had entwined his arms around the mermaid’s delicate frame, gently lifting her up out of the water as he returned the kiss with all the passion he could muster. When Muirín finally broke away, she cupped Samson’s cheek with her hand, moving her head so her shining eyes stared deeply into his.

 

_ “Le do thoil ... scaoil amach mé.” _

 

_ Please… set me free. _

 

Samson nodded in response. As he pulled Muirín closer for another kiss, the lovers were suddenly interrupted by a sharp cry from the tent opening.

 

“What the hell is going on here?!”

 

The pair turned their heads, and saw the agitated figure of Darius Dark stood before them, horrified by what he had just witnessed. As Muirín leapt back into the tank, the ringmaster ragefully charged towards the bearded man, roaring like a wild animal.

 

Later that evening, neither Darius nor Samson turned up for the troupe’s evening meal. After waiting for a good while, a concerned Elissandre headed towards the mermaid’s tent, wondering if they’d simply lost track of time. 

 

As she stepped inside, she was met by a horrifying sight - with the bloodcurling scream that followed it being heard for many miles around.

 

Samson and Muirín were gone. Bobbing up and down in the closed tank was the body of Darius Dark… his eyes staring blankly from behind the glass, his face ghost-white, and his final breath having long since left his lungs.

 

* * *

 

One summer sunset, on a shore of Galway Bay, a man sat at the edge of the water and stared out to sea, his soul calmed by the beautiful scene before him. The small wooden shack in which he lived was only a few steps behind him. Within the water, half-submerged and laying peacefully in his arms, was his mermaid bride. 

 

They had arrived here a few weeks ago - Samson having filled a washtub with water, stolen a cart, and driven himself and Muirín away from Dark’s Den and back to her aquatic homeland… committing one of the ultimate sins to ensure her freedom. 

 

They were never to speak of it again.

 

During the day, the pair were forced to live apart. Samson combed the beach for items and did odd jobs to earn a living, whilst Muirín spent time with her fellow mermaids in the beautiful city beneath the waves. But when night began to fall, and the pair were safe from prying eyes, Muirín returned to the shore to be with her husband - the bearded man having longed all day for the sun to set faster in the sky.

 

Samson knew he had done a wicked thing. But here and now, he had no regrets. The woman he loved was happy, and he was here beside her - making things work as best as they could. True, they were from two different worlds, but so many couples before them had been, too… just in a slightly less literal sense.

 

As he embraced Muirín that little bit tighter, his beloved sighed contentedly.

 

_ “Mo ghrá thú, Samson.” _

 

_ “Tá mo chroí istigh ionat, Muirín.” _

 

Yes, they were a bit of an odd couple.

 

But if there was one thing Samson was used to, it was oddness.


	4. Trouble Stewing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being the Professor's much-maligned dogsbody for Heaven knows how long, Elias finally snaps, and cooks up a revolting recipe in revenge...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modifiers for this Drabble:  
> Lord Slogar - Was Stirred Into the Stew
> 
> A very quick piece that was originally written in response to a prompt posted by Sky Ship Studios - developers of "Gloom - Digital Edition":  
> https://www.facebook.com/skyshipstudios/

Hate is a strong word, but Elias E. Gorr HATED that little bell.

That ting-a-ling-a-ling sound that rang through the castle whenever the Professor wanted him for something. At first, it was just "surgical supplies", but nowadays, she was so busy with her work, she seemed to think Elias was there to do pretty much every chore there was to do.

"Make dinner. And clean my husband's tank out."

Not even a "please". Muttering oaths, Elias awkwardly carried Lord Slogar down several flights of stairs to the kitchen.

He resented this treatment. He was a gravedigger, for God's sake - not a butler, or... whatever the hell that pirate wannabe was over at Blackwater Watch. It was enough to drive a man mad.

She never asked Melissa to do anything. As it happened, the girl wasn't in right now - she and Grogar had gone to Hemlock Hall for a sleepover with the Wellington-Smythe twins. The siblings had a morbid curiosity in her. Still, when she was around, Elias had to dote on her as well - what with her mother always locked away in her lab. So, on top of everything else, Elias was pretty much a nanny now, too.

What on Earth was the Professor doing all this for, anyway? Most people just buried their dead loved ones and got on with their lives. Besides, Elias loved a good funeral... it was how he'd met Helena in the first place.

As he popped Lord Slogar on a side table and pulled a large cooking pot out of a creaky cupboard, Elias' ears pricked up as he heard that damn bell again. Roaring in anger, he hurled the pot to the floor.

That was it. Enough was enough.

As he paced through the kitchen furiously, his eyes fell onto Lord Slogar, bobbing happily(?) in his tank.

With a low chuckle, the gravedigger approached it.

\----

Helena said nothing during supper that night. Elias had never made stew before, and the taste was certainly... distinct - almost chemical - but she appreciated his efforts and his ongoing support: often a lot more than she let on.

Elias, meanwhile, at the other side of the table, desperately suppressed giggles as he ate. HE was relishing every mouthful.


End file.
